


All That Remains

by Lywinis



Series: Swords and Serpents: An Ineffable Husbands Collection [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: After Armageddon't, An AU scenario, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Scene: The Bookshop Fire (Good Omens), Tumblr Ask Box Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 16:18:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20910527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lywinis/pseuds/Lywinis
Summary: How do you recover your life from the ashes and the rubble? Where do you go to wash the past away? What happens when things don't go according to Plan?





	All That Remains

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bearfeathers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearfeathers/gifts).

> 
>       _And I wonder if you know, that I never understood, that
>     Although you said you'd go, until you did, I never thought you would._
>     
> 
> — Don McLean, Empty Chairs
> 
> bearfeathers said:  
Good Omens, AU where Aziraphale really IS killed in the shop fire, but is brought back when Adam puts everything back the way it was.

Crowley’s life as he knew it ended in hellfire.

Oh, not the wave of flame that burned through the M25, no.

That came later.

No, it was the touch, the spark of hellfire that he could smell on the wind, even as he rushed into the bookshop that was aflame in Soho. All that old paper, it went up without so much as a complaint, but it was the wood and brick that caught the hellfire, pushing it to capricious heights, letting it taunt the firefighters with an almost sentient glee, raging out of control when they thought they’d just gotten it handled.

But it recognized Crowley, welcomed him in with laughing arms, baking the sides of his face and hands with heat from the outside in.

_Look what I’ve done_, it seemed to say. _Look what I’ve wrought._

Crowley looked, and he despaired. The bookshop was in shambles, the fire and the water damage irreversible, unfixable. Even if he did the miracle that large, it would require him to explain Downstairs why he was restoring something that someone thought to set hellfire upon. He would have to wipe memories, erase footage.

It was too big, too much, especially in the wake of the fear that gripped him. He still hadn’t found the angel. Bile rose in his mouth as the smell of burning paper seared his nostrils.

“Aziraphale!” he shouted, gathering up the wayward sparks of hellfire as he went, the regular flames in their wake doused with water from the hoses outside, without the supernatural destruction to allow them continued leave to burn. “Where the heaven are you, you idiot?”

He manifested himself a glass jug, shoving the hellfire inside, pulling it from the walls and ceiling and the spines of devoured books. There was no answer, and he ducked through the stacks, avoiding the blasts from the hoses that would knock him flat and impede his search.

The back room. That would be where he’d take refuge if he couldn’t get out. Crowley shoved toward it, only to be rebuffed by a falling beam landing in front of him. He snarled, wings flaring into existence, and blasted it out of the way. He pulled more hellfire down from where it was chewing on the frame, and shouldered the door open.

“No.” It wheezed out of him, less a word and more punctuation on the scene before him. Aziraphale wasn’t here.

Not anymore.

Charred scraps of tartan flickered on the floorboards, the rug that had been both plush and threadbare against his feet late at night burnt away to reveal the shop’s floorboards. Hellfire had consumed the angel whole, leaving nothing but a scorched black mark on the floor, a silhouette with wings spread as though to beat the substance from him before it consumed him whole.

An outline of the angel’s final, terrible agony.

There would have been nothing the angel could have done. Not like that.

“Nguh.” Crowley scrubbed a filthy hand over his equally filthy face, covered in soot and blackened by the water soaking the shop around him. “You stupid—nguh.”

Tears streaked his face but he shoved himself to his feet, hissing and sniffling, choking in the smoke now that his vessel had taken over and was trying to make him breathe. He snatched at the book on the floor, something that had been precious enough that Aziraphale had brought it to the back room, to attempt to save it. It was blackened, but the cover seemed to be the only thing damaged. One last miracle from a dying angel?

He didn’t know, just shoved the blessed thing in his jacket and snapped the hellfire back from whence it came, scrabbling from the shop as the firefighters began to enter the building, looking for survivors.

There were none. Not even Crowley.

* * *

There was nothing left but to watch the end of the world. Crowley pulled the book from his jacket. He was filthy, soaked to the bone, and shivering, but the book was intact, repelling the water and soot. He paged it open, revealing the inside.

_The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch._

He remembered, once, having drinks with Aziraphale back in the eighties, when they’d conversely stopped talking about Important Things, such as holy water and the nature of angels versus demons. It only served to become a point of contention between them. The angel never did like to be reminded that they weren’t that different, not at the heart of them.

The angel had brought up the book, stating that it was the only accurate book of prophecy that had no fail rate. Crowley himself was shit at divination, though Aziraphale had a knack for bibliomancy – only fair, as the bastard ran a book shop, after all. But even though he himself was short-sighted in the ways of prophecy (and really, short-sighted in other ways, though he stood by the idea that even if his demonic activities inconvenienced him too, they got the point across), he knew that a one hundred percent accuracy rate was a statistical anomaly. It was impossible, or it should be.

There was no way the Almighty would have dumped all that prophecy into one human’s head. It would have made her battier than a belfry. He’d seen enough so called ‘simpletons’ in his day, and thought being touched by the Almighty’s hand was not something that humans ought to relish, even if it was a privilege. Even then, it was hard to spot the spark of divine inspiration in the midst of all that madness.

A bit like the Ineffable Plan, in his own estimation.

He remembered now, that he’d resolved to find the only copy, but Aziraphale himself had said it was hopeless, and if the numerous contacts he’d made in his time collecting rare texts couldn’t find it, well—

Crowley had thought it had been the end of it. Standing with the singed book in his hands, he wasn’t so sure.

Someone shoved at his shoulder, snapping at him to get out of the way as they passed. He realized he was standing in the middle of the sidewalk, completely unblinking, as the world continued to turn around him.

Odd, that.

His life was over, and the world went on.

Well, not for much longer, but it did for now.

Crowley bent back to the book, moving to an alleyway where he could stand and not be shoved by pedestrians. Little slips of paper marked pages, and he recognized the angel’s delicate handwriting on the note stuck to the margins.

Crowley’s vision wavered and he snarled at his vessel, glaring it into submission in a puddle of nearby water. Now was not the time. He needed to read this last bit, and then he could decide what he should do.

The notes were nigh incomprehensible, unless one was very well-versed in the habits of the angel in question. Crowley very quickly sussed out the rhyme to Aziraphale’s reason, poring through the relevant bits quickly.

Not only had the angel managed to find out when the world would end, he’d reasoned out where, and where the antichrist_ was_ – and the dates had been underlined, with a note.

> _Call Crowley._

“You stupid bastard, you brilliant stupid bastard,” he said. His voice was thick, a stone in the back of his throat, but he clutched the book to him like a lifeline. It had been a last ditch—and they’d fought about it. They’d argued.

> _We have nothing whatsoever in common. I don’t even like you._
> 
> _You **do**._

He could keep the world. A gift, perhaps, from the angel. One last thing to safeguard until the time was right, until its proper run was done.

Crowley made a run for the Bentley. He had enough time, he could get to Tadfield. He could make it. It was important to Aziraphale, therefore it was important now.

> _I forgive you._

Crowley drove hell for leather toward Tadfield. The apocalypse chased his heels.

* * *

He had expected a hellspawn, with a cruel and twisted sense of righteous evil that coated him like a miasma, wearing suffering like a cloak.

To be fair, he was rather stressed from the trip here, the flaming M25 and his Bentley finally giving up the ghost at the gates to Tadfield Airbase…well. It had been a day, certainly. Crowley felt as though he were being held together with string and chewing gum, but he pressed on.

The last twenty-four hours on earth had felt very much like an average twenty-four hours in hell, if he were being honest—and Crowley was rarely that honest with himself.

But Adam. Adam was a marvel. Adam Young wasn’t anything that Crowley had expected.

Instead, despite all circumstances, he found a rather normal eleven-year-old boy, who was concerned with the fate of the world, and wanted to make it better. Who believed in conservation, in caring for the world, in the inherent need for people to change how they lived. Crowley…was rather pleasantly surprised. Less surprised when the dog bit him, but it was a hell hound, and like recognized like right away.

He couldn’t even really blame Dog, on that one. He imagined he looked rather wild, his eyes uncovered, the full effect of his eyes revealed to the world, yellow sclera sickly in the bloody red cast that the sky had taken. Now, with time ground to a halt and Crowley holding onto that with all he’s got, there wasn’t much else he could really do about his appearance.

His wings belled out behind him, black as soot and flared out protectively.

“Look,” Crowley said, taking a knee and getting eye level with Adam, wincing from the dog bite. “I’m all you’ve got.”

“Who even are you?” Adam asked.

“I was…well, I was supposed to be your godfather,” he said. “Sort of. One of them. Cocked it up rather well, even by my standards. Look, it’s not important right now. What’s important is that what you do here decides the fate of everything, and everyone, right now. You can choose to take your birthright, but things _will_ end. There will be no rebuilding. Heaven and Hell are using you to kick off a war, and they’re going to kill each other while the world crumbles around them.”

“That’s…”

“Not _fair_, I know,” Crowley said. “But listen. I can’t make this choice for you. I like living here. I’d like…well. I would have liked to continue living here, but I expect that’ll be over and done with now. Y’know what, never mind. But…my friend, he couldn’t be here to help. And he liked living here too, with humans. So I’m all you’ve got. And whatever choice you make, for good or for evil, I’m behind you. It’s all up to you.”

Adam’s blue eyes stared into Crowley’s yellow ones, as though he could read Crowley’s mind. Crowley wasn’t entirely sure he couldn’t.

“Take my hand,” Crowley said. “I’m going to restart things, and then it’s going to be your show.”

The antichrist took his hand, and Crowley took a deep breath. It must have been his imagination, but he almost felt Aziraphale’s hand on his shoulders, keeping him grounded as he undid what he’d done to give them time.

His breath turned shaky. But there was nothing for it now, but to move forward.

“Give ‘em Hell, Adam,” he said, and spun his Bentley’s starter handle. The rush of Time resuming its course left him weak in the knees, but he stood behind Adam, watching the tarmac in front of them crumble away. He kept his feet, because he’d made a promise.

* * *

Adam returned everything to the way it was before the Apocalypse. Crowley knew, because he’d checked.

He’d been sitting outside the restored bookshop in Soho for more than three days, in fact. Less than a week, he was pretty sure, but with Armageddon fading from everyone’s memories like a strange and terrible waking nightmare, he couldn’t be absolutely certain. It was a strange aftereffect of everything, he thought. He could remember it happening, but it was fuzzy around the edges, like it was decades ago instead of last week.

So he’d remained in the Bentley, staring unblinking at the closed sign that hung in the shop’s window. He’d spooked the first police car that had wandered by, checking on him, and had cloaked himself from the others. He simply couldn’t bring himself to go in. Not yet.

It took him another day before he mustered the courage.

No one had entered during that time. Night had fallen, and the windows had remained dark where they’d always blazed with a warm light when the angel was in. No one exited.

The walk across the street felt like a hike, the steps like a mountain range, but the door opened to the flick of Crowley’s long fingers, letting him into the book shop. It was clean, smelled of ink and paper, the hint of ozone in the air a reminder. Crisp apple skin, like the fruit right before you take a bite, tense until it gave under the sharpness of your teeth. He inhaled, his eyes going wide, his pupils dilating under the assault of his memories.

_I know what you smell like._

Crowley closed and locked the door behind him, then sank to the floor. For the first time in the weeks after the end of the world, Crowley finally allowed it to end. Hot, stinging tears spilled from his eyes and he pulled long legs to his chest, letting the animal noise claw itself up and out of his body, his whole being shaking with the grief he’d buried since he’d raced back to find the angel, only to face the flames. He cried so hard he felt nausea deep in the pits of him, and he inhaled a shaky breath, lying on the floor and gasping for breath like a beached fish.

How long he lay like that, he didn’t know, but the shadows were crawling across the bookshop by the time he managed to get himself upright once more. The sun was setting. He pulled down the hours posted in the windows, putting up a hastily scrawled sign in its stead.

**Closed until further notice. Appointments by phone may be arranged by dialing 020 7946 0042.**

The number cycled to a voice mail that went nowhere, which meant that customers would spend days or weeks waiting on a call back that would never come.

Some habits died harder than others, Crowley reasoned. Either way, it would have probably secretly delighted the angel, who was forever fretting about customers buying some of his precious books.

The books were all that remained. The shop was pristine, and Crowley wandered the stacks, letting his eyes travel over the spines, then his fingertips. The angel’s scent laid heavy in the air here, mingled with his own. If he stayed here, likely he would overwrite it, taint it with his presence like he’d done so often before. He inhaled, imprinting the smell on his memories. It was all he had left.

His face felt brittle, like flaking shale, but he continued to the back room, opening the door.

No longer were there scorch marks on the floor, the rug was still as soft and as shabby as it had ever been. He toed the rug back, only to find smooth and shiny floorboards. Polished by the weight of his and the angel’s tread across them for two hundred years.

Nothing else.

Not even ghosts were allowed in A. Z. Fell & Co.

Crowley began making the necessary arrangements.

* * *

It took six months for him to carve himself an existence in the bones of the book shop. He’d found the (mostly unused) flat upstairs and cleaned it up, leaving the furniture but moving over his plants and his records and electronics and all the things he knew the angel would have hated but would have been too polite to deny him. It was almost with a sullen sort of energy that he placed these things in their new space.

_I wouldn’t have had to do this if you hadn’t gone,_ the motions seemed to say. But that was neither here nor there, because the angel had _gone_.

So, it seemed, had the others. The angels and demons that had been clamoring for a fight had quieted, and there hadn’t been anyone seeking any sort of retribution, not yet. But perhaps it was because Hastur had told them all about Ligur, and that perhaps it made him less of a target than he thought.

There was a sort of reputation one built when one murdered one’s own coworker in cold blood—never mind the fact that Hastur and Ligur were intent on doing the same to him. It still served its purpose, and retribution from Hell never came. Perhaps it was for the best. Perhaps they were biding their time.

Crowley ignored it and puttered around the book shop, dusting the shelves and yelling at his plants. Sometimes he left, when he really would like something to eat, or to procure ridiculous amounts of alcohol. Sometimes he came back with a new book, one to slide into the stacks alongside its brethren, out of place just enough that he knew Aziraphale would have fussed about it.

It was almost like having him back. But _almost_ wasn’t the same as _is_, and it was a far sight crueler than using _was_.

Crowley still couldn’t bring himself to really transition into that line of thinking. It was harder, now, living in the bookshop and awakening to an empty building where the water rattled in the pipes as the heat warmed them, but it was a comforting sound, a familiar sound. Sometimes, it was too quiet, and Crowley played records too loud and drank himself into a pounding hangover that he didn’t really miracle away.

It became something of a habit, developing a routine that involved him sticking closely to the shop. He kept his flat in Mayfair, though he shuttered it, with some vague excuse that he was going to be travelling for a while. It wasn’t as though he couldn’t afford it. Now, though, he’d slithered himself into every ounce of paperwork in regards to the shops, taking over the payments for the rent and placing his name on the appropriate dotted lines. In all but name, he was now the owner, but it wasn’t his.

He was just keeping things up for the angel. Going through the motions, as it were.

Six months in, and Crowley felt himself slipping back to his true nature. Some days he woke to find himself coiled tightly around the armchair in the back, his blunt serpentine head pressed against the back, as though trying to smell the angel who’d once occupied it. The first time he’d squeezed, in groggy reflex, and only came back to himself when the chair creaked in protest as its decidedly elderly joints were strained.

He made sure to sleep with something that smelled like the angel close by. Wouldn’t do to destroy the furniture every time he craved a nap.

He grew his hair longer, though older traditions might have had him shaving it all off. Instead, he let it get to shoulder length, clubbing it into a loose braid at the back of his head to keep it out of his eyes. It was another nice way to avoid conversation with passersby; no one really made eye contact with longhaired hipsters, thinking him insufferable.

So what if he was?

* * *

Ten months after the world didn’t end, he found himself in St. James Park. The ducks seemed to have missed them, gabbling softly at his feet as he threw out the vegetables and chopped grapes he’d bought for them. It wasn’t the same, doing it alone.

His breath steamed in the cold. He was still here. Somehow. It didn’t hurt less, though the books he’d been grazing on in his idleness said that grief took different lengths of time for different people.

He wasn’t exactly people, and he had no idea how grieving…worked, not for someone like him. How could six thousand years of knowing someone, learning to like them, then love them—how could anyone reconcile that ache? Bone-deep like weariness borne of a heavy burden, Crowley did not know how to place it down.

The books said that it got easier, but he wasn’t sure that he wanted it to be.

Was that something he deserved?

* * *

Sixteen months after the world failed to come to an end, however, Heaven finally came in search of Aziraphale’s belongings.

It was quite the nasty shock to Crowley, who’d been dusting Aziraphale’s collection with the same intensity in which he did most things these days. Keeping himself in motion meant he didn’t have time to think or reflect, or bear the weight of existing as half of a whole. While he and Aziraphale were inseparable, he heard the nasty little voice in the back of his head, often enough, coiled up and hissing the word _clingy_.

_Needy._

Thus, he’d avoided that voice by trying to work himself to exhaustion. While he didn’t need sleep, or food, he’d trained his vessel how to do both, and often his body craved sleep. Food had just been an excuse to spend time with the angel. But sleep. Well. He was supposed to encourage all the vices, but his particular favorite was Sloth. When he worked hard physically, his vessel would sleep faster, go deeper into unconsciousness. It was a…good arrangement, as good as any.

But the bell jangling over the shop’s threshold had him whipping about towards the sound because he’d locked the doors.

_We’re closed!_ he almost snarled from the back, stalking forward toward the sound. But instinct made him quiet, made him set his duster on the shelf, his yellow eyes gleaming in the dimness of the stacks.

Humans had avoided the place since he’d shuttered it; the streets were as busy as ever, and the potential customers had peered into the windows until he had papered them over with a black film that kept nosy people out of his angel’s book shop.

The mafia had stopped by exactly once, realized whom they were dealing with was far more dangerous to them than their own boss, and had exited post haste.

Now, human eyes regarded the shop much the same way as a blank brick wall, with an additional layer of a minor curse to keep graffitists and bill-stickers at bay. As far as Soho was concerned, it was the cleanest brick wall in the neighborhood, if a little old.

So, whomever had entered his angel’s shop was not human.

He made no noise as he walked, the floorboards long ago having been glared into submission when he first settled into the place. Even before…that, it had always been that way. The floor knew his steps and wouldn’t make noise unless he asked for it.

He stopped short, taking in Gabriel standing at the counter, looking about himself, a copy of _Wuthering Heights_ clasped in his hands, as though he’d been examining it.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Crowley demanded.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Gabriel said, setting the book on the counter. “This place isn’t yours.”

His voice was cool and sure, devoid of any sort of emotion. The proper and right sort of façade to deal with a demon, in his estimation, Crowley was sure.

“Paperwork would say otherwise,” Crowley said, itching to yank the book from Gabriel’s presence, to put it back on the shelf with its brethren. That wasn’t for him to touch, it had been _Aziraphale’s_—

His self-preservation was greater than that, watching dark brows rise above Gabriel’s impossibly purple eyes. He would strike, but when it was to his benefit. For now, words.

His hand twitched, and he shoved it in his trousers’ pocket.

“Paperwork?”

“Yeah, the shit you and all your flock seem to love so much. Legally, in all ways, the shop belongs to me.” Crowley gestured around himself. “Signed the paperwork over a year ago.”

“Very like a demon to move into a place owned by an angel to corrupt it,” Gabriel said, sniffing.

“Mate, you’re one to talk,” Crowley said. “You didn’t want anything of his? Not a—”

He felt like a living whiplash, vibrating with all the energy grief had sapped from him these last months, ready to pull something, anything, from Gabriel. An apology, an explanation. _Something._

Anything.

“Angels don’t keep mementos,” Gabriel said. “It’s forbidden.”

“Ooh, listen to you,” Crowley said. “Those suits say otherwise. And I know your eyes weren’t always that color.”

The archangel sneered, his nose wrinkling in an unpleasant way, as though he’d smelled the stench of something rotting. As fast as the expression had appeared, however, it was gone, and Gabriel was placid again, a lake with a glass surface, hiding the deadly waters below.

“Very like a demon,” he said again, resting his hand on the cover of the book. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to cleanse the place regardless, if we’re going to be using it as a base of operations here on earth.”

Crowley’s eyes flashed, yellow to the corners. “You’ll be collecting pieces of any angel you send down here.”

“Is that so?” Gabriel said. He hardly seemed convinced, and in fact seemed to have expected this. In his anger, Crowley didn’t exactly cotton on until a moment later, his gaze snapping to the Archangel’s face. Hints of it at the corners, that carefully pressed façade fraying about the edges.

It could be explained as the Archangel’s grace leaking through, but this didn’t feel holy. This felt more…familiar.

Guilt. It wasn’t his own—he was far too used to swallowing that back each and every day.

Why would Gabriel feel guilt, walking into this shop? He clearly wasn’t fazed by the angel’s death. All the same, he could taste it on the air, a nasty miasma.

Realization dawning was like a cold slosh of water to the face, and Crowley hissed.

“You killed him,” he said, his voice dropping. “You—”

“I did _not_,” Gabriel interjected. “I _warned_ him about skirting the rules. And seeing how…comfortable you are here, it makes me wonder exactly how cozy you two were.”

Crowley’s lips writhed back from his teeth, far too sharp to be his vessel’s standard issue. “You don’t know a blessed thing.”

“I know enough,” Gabriel said. He fished in his jacket, into an inner pocket, and pulled out a file folder. Pristine and manila, it had Enochian printed neatly on the tab. “You think we never noticed?”

He tossed the folder onto the counter, and photos spilled out. Crowley stepped toward Gabriel, the counter between them, his hands shaking with repressed anger.

Pictures. The folder contained pictures. Crowley and Aziraphale seated on the bench at the park. Eating at the Ritz. On the bus, at the museum, at the bandstand. All the places they met and spoke, enjoyed each other’s company.

“When you arrived on the airbase, I knew I was right,” Gabriel said. “No one else would have known about the book. The girl, Ana-something—the prophetess—wouldn’t have been able to stop it herself. But you…you caused problems. You weren’t supposed to be there, and—”

“You did. You killed him.” Crowley’s stomach had turned to lead, his eyes locked on the photos. Rage, hot and white like a newborn star, churned in his chest.

“Again, I didn’t kill him. I warned him.” Gabriel said it as though explaining a complicated concept to a toddler. “It’s a pity he didn’t listen, but you only have yourselves to blame. Playing your little side games, as though the Plan could have been denied. You know that’s not how these things work. Following the rules would have kept you both alive.”

“Rules,” Crowley spat. “You always follow the rules. That’s why you’re working so blessedly hard to avoid taking the hit for this one. Angels are _good _and _right_ and _righteous_ and _insufferable pricks _because you’re just as flawed as the rest of us—you’re just too high up to see anything but your long noses as you look down.”

“You—”

“Shut up!”

The counter had been there, then it wasn’t, shoved haphazardly against the wall, ripped from its moorings as Crowley removed all barriers between him and Gabriel. He latched long, spindly fingers on Gabriel’s lapels, driving the Archangel backward and thumping him hard against the western wall.

Books rattled on their shelves, the book cases groaning at the force of the movement.

“Angels have their memories erased when someone Falls, d’you know that?” Crowley asked, his voice soft and sibilant as he held the Archangel there. “But not you. No, I don’t think you would’ve. Too high up. So tell me, Archangel Fucking Gabriel. Do you remember who I Was?”

Crowley watched the expression on Gabriel’s face flicker from surprise to anger. To recognition.

“I Know,” he said. And there it was. Disgust.

Good. He should know a modicum of what Crowley was feeling right now. He should have a shadow of it, something scratching at the casket of his Grace that he couldn’t bury for long. Eventually, someone would find out. Just like Crowley had.

“Then you know that what I’m saying is the truth. **_I will never forget. And I will never forgive. Not you, nor anyone else who had a hand in this. _**Aziraphale was the best of all of us—imperfect but the best all the same. And as much as you try to worm your way out from beneath the guilt of having issued the order, I can smell it on you.” Crowley’s teeth were bared, inches from the Archangel’s face. “You are not forgiven. **_Go_**.”

He turned, tugging Gabriel with him by the lapels. He heaved, shoving him towards the door.

Gabriel straightened, as though to turn and say something, but an expression of surprise flickered across his face. He looked positively green, staggering. He stumbled toward the door, pushing through it and out to the street. Crowley followed, watching him shove people to the side and retch in the gutter across the street.

Must be nice, not eating so all your vessel throws up is bile.

Crowley turned away from the door, satisfied. Pedestrians felt the shiver down their spines, treading on desecrated ground, for a block around the book shop in every direction, scattering to the opposite side of the street. Good. Let them hurry along their business. Shouldn’t be hanging about the shop regardless.

Crowley began to right his mess.

Gabriel might be back. He might not. Either way, the shop was safe for another day.

* * *

Two years and three months after Armageddon-that-wasn’t, Crowley had found a sort of equilibrium. No one had bothered him in ages, and angels seemed to avoid the shop, when he could sense them. They watched, but there wasn’t much they could do about his nastiness. They kept their distance.

He preferred it that way. Leave him alone.

He’d finally finished moving his records to the shop, but more often than not, he found himself playing them downstairs instead of in the flat. Tonight was such a night, with a glass of wine and a record going, breathing in the scent of the angel that never seemed to disappear from the book shop, no matter how long he lived here.

Perhaps it was his punishment, turning a corner and expecting Aziraphale there, sorting through a new box of acquisitions. But Crowley didn’t think so. The memories ached, but they didn’t feel like they were meant to destroy, not any longer. Now, they were more of a fond feeling than anything else.

He closed his eyes.

_La mer,_

_qu'on voit danser le long des golfes clairs,_

_a des reflets d'argent—_

A quieter song for a quiet night. There had been times that he’d blasted loud rock to fill the emptiness, but the night was chilly, a first snow outside meaning that the end of the year was on the way. Once more, the earth had finished her rotation, carrying him farther from Armageddon. It was quiet, the snow meaning that sounds outside were more muffled than ever, a blanket of white quieting the world for a little while.

He pushed his sunglasses up onto his head, using them to push his hair out of his face, rubbing a palm across his jaw.

“Nights like these, I miss you the most,” he said, softly. It wasn’t often he addressed his ghosts face to face like this, but tonight felt…different, somehow. “Somehow, it feels like you should walk through the door and—”

The bell over the threshold of the shop jangled cheerily.

Crowley startled, his eyes snapping open and the wine slopping over the rim of the glass and onto his hand.

“Shit,” he muttered, setting it aside and pushing himself to his feet. He was in the back room, but if someone was inside, they already knew someone was here, thanks to the music. He grimaced. He could kill all the lights, but he had a feeling that wouldn’t stop whoever it was.

It couldn’t have been an angel, he’d desecrated the ground.

He slithered over to the door of the back room, peering out into the dimly lit shop. His eyes were quite good; he had that advantage over most humans, but what he was tracking was someone decidedly not human. He breathed in, but he could only smell Aziraphale, the same as always.

He grimaced again.

Someone was masking themselves, probably hoping to get the drop on him.

He slipped out of the back room, melting into the shadows of the stacks, pacing about the shop. He knew every non-Euclidian inch of it by now, and he was ready to turn the tables if need be. There was a rustle toward the east side of the shop, and he moved toward it.

There was the sound of paper shuffling, and his fists clenched. Those were Aziraphale’s. Whoever had come in was either very brave—or very stupid—if they were a thief.

A lamp flicked on, and he froze.

Did someone really think they could brazenly get away with that while he sat in the back room? He moved closer, wishing he had something solid, like the fireplace poker from upstairs. Nothing for it now, though. He rounded the corner, only to stop short.

Aziraphale stood, his coat even more shabby than before, snow melting off his shoulders as he gazed around the book shop. His hair was longer, his curls what one might call ‘untamed’ if anyone could really even describe the puff of soft blond curls that swept back from Aziraphale’s head. Crowley’s sign was between his fingers, and there was a small, fond smile on his lips as he read the words there.

“Oh, you clever thing,” the angel said. “Keeps customers out for good, I bet. I’ll have to go to your flat and explain tomorrow, I think. You’re sleeping now, surely. Nice of you to leave it like this, though. Even sounds like someone’s living here.”

The air left him in an audible wheeze. His knees felt like they were made of water, and they gave out as Aziraphale turned, his eyes lighting on Crowley. He beamed.

“Oh! Crowley!” He smiled. “You’re here! Well, this is a bit awkward, I—”

“You’re not real,” Crowley blurted. “You’re not. Is that their plan? Go—Sa—for fuck’s sake. How cruel are they going to be?”

His vision swam, even as he sat down hard on the polished wooden floor. He scrubbed a hand over his face to will his vision to stop doubling and tripling. He could feel his chest heaving, but he wasn’t getting air. He didn’t need air. Why was he trying so hard to get it?

“Crowley?” The angel sounded like he was down a long tunnel stuffed with cotton. He realized that was because his ears were ringing.

“Guh, no. No.” Crowley swatted at the hand reaching for him. “You’re dead, don’t—”

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale knelt beside him, a warm palm tucking against his jaw. “I’m very real.”

“No, you can’t be. You died. I s—” A great, gulping sob startled them both, and he realized it had come from him. He thought he was done with this, this—

“Oh, my dear.” Aziraphale pulled him close, pressing Crowley to his shoulder, his hand warm on the back of the demon’s neck. Crowley inhaled, filling his nose with the scent of the angel, his eyes squeezing shut.

Was it a sin to not want to open his eyes? Well, he was already damned.

“I am terribly sorry it took me so long to…” Aziraphale murmured. Crowley jerked back, stung.

“That’s—yeah! Why?” Relief turned to anger, and Crowley fisted his hands in Aziraphale’s lapels.

“I woke up in Eden,” he said.

“_Eden_?” Crowley gaped at him.

“Well, the desert where it had been,” Aziraphale said. “Perhaps reset to the very Beginning. Not a very nice nap to wake up from, even if I was glad to wake up alive.”

“And you couldn’t be arsed to _call_?” Crowley snapped. “Phones exist, angel.”

“Crowley, don’t _fuss_. I had no idea how Armageddon had turned out.” Aziraphale gently unwound his lapels from Crowley’s death grip, patting his hands as he did so. Crowley snarled and jerked his fingers away. Aziraphale looked a little hurt, but that flickered into him straightening his shabby clothing.

“I couldn’t risk a miracle or communication if we’d lost. I’d have been home far sooner if I knew we’d made it after all—the Arabian Desert is so _big_, I was walking for ages—I’ve been relying on the kindness of strangers to get me home. I had no idea if I’d woken up after the End or if you’d managed to find—”

“The book—”

“So you did!” Aziraphale beamed. “Oh, you always were a clever serpent. It went well, I’m guessing.”

“Well,” Crowley said, his tone gone from desperate to grouchy in a moment. “Yes, well, as well as it could have been when you left me to face down the first of the Fallen alone with an eleven-year-old.”

“I _am_ sorry, Crowley!” Aziraphale said. “I couldn’t exactly help being…indisposed.”

Dead.

Crowley snatched at Aziraphale’s shoulders again, patting him down.

“All here, I promise,” Aziraphale said. “All intact.”

“It was hellfire—” Crowley said, swallowing hard. “I cleaned it up but—”

“I wasn’t sure what had set the fire, but I was confident I could get out. But it was…too fast.” Aziraphale looked troubled. “It was like someone had set it up to trap me in the back room.”

Crowley felt his lips writhe back from his teeth in a pained rictus. “Yeah.”

“Oh, but you got it looking just the same,” Aziraphale said.

“Not me,” Crowley said. “Adam. Good kid.”

“Oh, I’m so glad.” Aziraphale rose to his knees, then to his feet, holding out a hand for Crowley. “Were you here to check on things?”

Crowley froze. “No.”

“Really?” Aziraphale asked.

“I…ngk—I live here now. Have since you—” Crowley fumbled with his sunglasses. “The flat upstairs.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale said. He glanced at the doors to the stairs, nibbling his lower lip. “Well, you’re welcome to it.”

“What?” Crowley asked.

“Oh, I don’t use it, unless I want to store food in the refrigerator upstairs,” Aziraphale said. “And store my clothes.”

“But the bed—”

“I slept in it once, and under orders to get rest, remember?” Aziraphale offered what had to be the most blasé shrug Crowley had ever seen. “It’s absolutely more your bed than mine.”

Crowley snapped his jaw shut. Aziraphale bent a little, and Crowley realized he was still holding his hand out to help the demon up. Crowley took the angel’s hand, the little thrill that Aziraphale was solid making his heart do a strange flip in his chest each time he touched the angel.

“There we are, my dear boy.” Aziraphale patted his shoulder, and Crowley felt like he was going to crumple inward again.  
  
“I think…” Crowley managed, through a thick voice that was his throat closing. “I need to have a lie down.”

“I—” Aziraphale hesitated, his face falling, then nodded. “Yes, of course. This must all be a bit much to process.”

Crowley shuddered. “Yeah.”

“All right, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “I’ll be here, if you need me.”

Crowley turned around, staggering up the stairs to the flat like a puppet with half its strings cut.

* * *

Crowley woke to the sun shining through the windows of the flat’s bedroom. He lay there, blinking in the watery light, bundled into the duvet like he never intended to leave. Perhaps that had been why he’d dreamed so vividly.

Aziraphale hadn’t walked through the door last night. That was impossible.

He turned his golden eyes to the ceiling, tracing patterns in the stucco, listening to the groan of water through the pipes as he slowly resolved to clean up his mess from yesterday. It would be hard, he knew, going downstairs and not seeing what he—damn him—hoped the most to see.

Somehow, he managed to get his slippers on, the bed to rights, and shuffled downstairs, intent on the back room and the coffee maker he’d installed. Something to get him going, and he would start the day.

He stopped at the foot of the stairs. The shop was in disarray, stacks of books laid out in a haphazard fashion. Crowley blinked, his gaze traveling over what could only be called ‘controlled chaos’. He stepped toward a pile, only to startle when someone cleared their throat.

That someone happened to be Aziraphale, who held a cup of coffee and a muffin on a plate. He was dressed in something much more well-kept than last night’s attire. New clothing that somehow still looked old, his camel-hair coat hanging on its usual hook, his sleeves rolled to the elbow. Shorter hair, cropped back to his most comfortable length, neat and proper now.

“I don’t know if your habits have changed, since…well. I got some muffins at the bakery down the way, and I thought that you might…like one?” The angel looked hopeful. “I’ve been putting things to rights, since you’ve been shelving things all willy-nilly.”

“Knew you’d notice,” Crowley said, his voice sounding scratchy. He took the plate from the angel with numb fingers, accepting the cup with his other hand.

“Really,” Aziraphale huffed. “You know how I like them shelved, I knew you were doing it on purpose.”

It was so vivid. So real. Was this his own personal hell? Had he somehow been landed back in—

The cup and plate dropped from his hands, shattering on the floor.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale turned back to him, eyes wide. “Are you quite all right?”

“Nuh—” Crowley bolted forward, crashing into the angel and wrapping his arms around him, clinging to him as hard as he could. “You’re **_alive_**.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said. Hesitantly, he reached up, wrapping his arms around the demon, cradling him against his solid frame. Crowley let out a broken noise, burying his face in the angel’s neck, breathing him in deeply.

“I should have made you get in the car—” Crowley’s voice was raw, his eyes squeezed shut. “Should have done _something_—”

“But you did, dearest,” Aziraphale said. “You stopped the end of the world. You found my notes and finished our work.”

“Our—”

“How else were we supposed to do things?” Aziraphale said.

How could he be so calm? Crowley reached down, pinched his own thigh so hard he hissed.

He wasn’t dreaming.

“Oh, my dear, don’t.” Aziraphale shifted so Crowley was looking at him. “I’m very real.”

He cupped Crowley’s face, and Crowley made another broken noise.

_Needy_, that nasty little voice in the back of his head whispered. _Clingy idiot. He’s going to ask you to let go—_

Aziraphale pressed his lips to Crowley’s forehead, stretching up a bit as he did so. The yammering nastiness quieted, Crowley’s surprise leaving him gaping at the angel.

“Was that too…” Aziraphale glanced away. “I’m sorry, I. I just felt…”

Crowley hauled Aziraphale closer, mashing their mouths together with a painful clicking of teeth. Aziraphale squawked, then inhaled, opening to Crowley. Crowley groaned and pressed closer to Aziraphale, the angel lifting him with hands beneath his thighs and holding him. Crowley wound his legs around Aziraphale’s waist, his arms around his neck.

“Do it again,” Crowley panted against his mouth. “You’re _real_.”

“Of course I am,” Aziraphale said between kisses and greedy bites of Crowley’s lower lip that left him dizzy. “Dearest.”

“_Angel_,” Crowley said, his voice a low whine.

“I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale said.

“Shut up,” Crowley said. “Don’t do it again and shut up.”

Aziraphale gave a watery laugh, one that Crowley echoed.

“Does this mean you’re not angry with me?” Aziraphale asked.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Crowley said, but he pressed his mouth to the corner of Aziraphale’s. “But I’m glad you’re home.”

“Well, yes, it would make sense that to go home I’d have to be where you are.”

Crowley made another annoyed noise, but only tugged gently on the hair at the back of the angel’s nape. “Shorter now. Miracle?”

“What are they going to do, audit me?” Aziraphale said.

Crowley laughed. “Bastard.”

“For you?” Aziraphale said, leaning back, his eyes dancing in mirth. “Always.”

Crowley buried his head in Aziraphale’s shoulder, letting the angel hold him for just a while more. It had been a very long separation, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all see that prompt, right? That's who you go after with torches and pitchforks. (I can already hear them screaming at me about La Mer.)
> 
> Let's see, how many fandoms can I traumatize at once?  
1\. Good Omens  
2\. Dragon Age (Y'all know what I'm talking about w/ that title)  
3\. Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (and possibly Merlahad fans)
> 
> This was an interesting bit to write. What was initially a 'send me a prompt and I will write you five headcanons about it' turned into a full fledged fic. There will likely be a bit of a break between this one and the next part. I will likely do more Mnemosyne before I come back to this.


End file.
